Blood Runs Thicker by Sarah Hawkswood (best electronic book reader txt) 📗

‘Yes, for he tied his bay to the branch of an oak and came to watch the women gathering the sheaves.’

‘Not the men cutting them?’

‘Not sure he would enjoy the view as much, my lord.’ Kenelm could not help but grin. ‘When they bends over, you see.’

‘Yes, I see. Does he … does he do more than look?’

‘If he does, who’s to stop him?’ The groom shrugged. ‘Many’s the wench as goes to the marriage bed having learnt its secrets from the one man she could not refuse, and it would be the foolish husband as blamed her for it.’ He sounded resigned.

Bradecote looked genuinely shocked. Never having wanted a fumble with a girl on his own manor, and with lascivious thoughts about maidservants limited to gazing dry-mouthed and breathless as a girl stripped to the waist and washed in a courtyard when he was an adolescent squire, he was stunned to think not that it happened, but that it was simply accepted as quite ordinary.

‘And is he like his father in that?’ Catchpoll could have laughed at his superior’s innocence but kept to the task in hand. ‘Old stags don’t just bellow.’

‘Mostly he was bellow.’ Kenelm looked less comfortable.

‘Only mostly?’

‘Her husband says as the babe will be his, but there’s whisperings.’ The man looked at his feet.

‘The woman who came from the village to tell of the riderless horse. Why was she not working?’ Bradecote, focusing back on what was being said, posed it more as a question to himself.

‘Too far gone to bend, she is, and likely to have it within the week, according to Mother Winflaed,’ Kenelm gave the answer anyway.

‘And it is her you meant?’ Catchpoll did not want them asking awkward questions of every pregnant woman in Lench.

‘Gytha, wife of Edmund.’ He nodded.

‘And when she came to the field you went back to the hall, after the lord Baldwin?’ Catchpoll wanted everything in one line of time in his head. It was easier to file it away that way.

‘I did, as we all did. Harvest was clean forgotten. The grey was before the stable, tied to the ring as if waiting, except that the lord Baldwin was ranting so it was getting upset. I calmed her though, and could assure him and our lady, when she came out after Fulk, that at least the horse had not fallen, for it was clean and pretty sound, though she had been a little less willing than usual. She is none so young and had a bruised frog the beginning of last week, and how the lord Osbern berated me, as if I could have prevented her stepping on some sharp stone.’

Bradecote opened his mouth and then shut it. The state of the horse was barely a confirmation, but the casual mention of the steward was another matter. However, it was one best kept between the sheriff’s men. The man before them could not have been the killer, and he was dismissed back to work.

‘So we have a possible motive, though dismissing this Edmund will be easy enough if he is vouched for as in the field, and Fulk the Steward came out of the hall, which is actually far more interesting,’ murmured Bradecote, pensively.

‘It makes you think, for sure, my lord. We discounted the lady herself, and that still stands, but if those bruises we saw were inflicted by her husband and she was angry enough, then she might have been able to persuade the steward to do what she could not. We had not considered her arranging the killing.’

‘No, we had not, and there was no affection, it would seem, in the marriage. In fact, the reverse, and Osbern came out to his horse having had angry words with the lady. The only trouble is that this was not unusual, from what the groom said, so why would this one thing have pushed her so far?’

‘Well, be fair, my lord. We only saw the bruises on her wrist. Who is to say what else happened besides?’

‘Yes, but the steward would not have known that when he came back and sent the groom to the field. It would have had to be a chance, and would a man go off and kill another because a woman told him to do so when in a temper?’ Bradecote could not quite see it working. Every man knew that women could fly into a blind rage one minute and as likely be meek and loving as brittle and sharp-tongued the next. At least every married man knew it. He had made the assumption that Fulk the Steward was wifeless now but had been married. Could it be that he had never taken a wife at all?

‘Depends on the woman,’ responded Catchpoll, but did not elaborate, as the girl set to watch in the hall came to them and made a deep obeisance to the undersheriff.

‘My lord, the man stirs. I cannot say he speaks as yet, but he stirs for sure, and when I touched him he moaned.’ Her voice held awe, but Catchpoll thought it more the act of speaking to someone as illustrious as the lord undersheriff of her shire than the fact that the sick man showed signs of returning to the land of the living.

‘Good. We shall come and see him, whether he speaks or not. Go and fetch the healer to him also. We would have her views.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ The girl dipped again, but then grabbed the hem of her skirts and raced, swift as if she were chased by wolves, to fulfil his command. The sheriff’s men walked towards the hall.

‘If everyone was that obedient with you, we would solve our problems so much faster,’ remarked Catchpoll, with a grin.

‘Sadly, too many take your path though, Catchpoll, and are tight-lipped, stubborn and downright disobedient.’ Bradecote sighed, but his eyes were screwed up with unvoiced merriment.

‘Yes, there is that. Mind you, most are not such crafty bastards, which